


Addiction

by Willdew



Category: The Venture Bros
Genre: M/M, Mild Internalized Homophobia, Post-Season 4, Venture Kink Meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-22
Updated: 2009-12-22
Packaged: 2018-05-17 12:15:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5869102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Willdew/pseuds/Willdew
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the anonymous "Venture Bros Kink Meme" back in 2009.  Initially posted anonymously using LiveJournal. </p><p>The prompt:</p><p>
  <i>Brock/Rusty - oh-my-god-you're-back reunion sex; or mush; or both; was it not agonizingly obvious how much they were trying to not act like they missed each other? so very desperately?</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It only happened when they were out in the middle of nowhere, before. And if there were women around, hostile or otherwise, it didn't, because Brock would be doing something—or rather, _someone_ else. And the doctor would roll his eyes and make a bitter joke out of it, like he did with everything. Because Brock would always find a way. And it didn't seem to matter who they were, exactly--enemy combatants, prostitutes, native women who didn't speak a lick of English, Lt. Anna Baldovich, for crying out loud--as long as she was definitely a she and circumstances allowed for a simple one-night stand, that was all that mattered. Brock had an urge, he took what he wanted, and the big bruiser was satisfied--simple, right? 

Except for when it wasn't.

In the years before Brock left Doctor Venture's service there'd been an understanding between employer and employee that whatever happened between them... physically... was to be considered something of a Last Resort. Brock was all impulse, all instinct, all the time--if he didn't get laid at least once or twice a week, he would become a 'sourpuss,' in the eyes of his family--a little short with the boys, a little less patient with the Doctor's ridiculous schemes and domestic demands. If the situation stretched beyond a week, henchmen beware: your chances of survival just plummeted from slim to nice-knowing-you. If the stint of abstinence reached a full month, you didn't want to be in the same room, antagonist or no. 

Doctor "Rusty" Venture had only seen his bodyguard "go without" for an extended period of time once in all their years of cohabitation, but as they say, once was enough. From that point onward, they shared an unspoken agreement. There were rules, of course. The boys weren't to know, neither were any of their colleagues, or enemies, or whatever you could call those people who inhabited the space in-between. Theirs was a working relationship; the Doc was in constant danger, and Brock was the best at what he did. Diabetics needed insulin, and Brock needed his baser impulses met. That's all it was. 

It was a shame, really; knowing that a man with the physique of an Olympic medalist and the mind of a stone-cold killer was willing to alternate between nannying his sons and swiftly eliminating giant swaths of hired muscle at the drop of a hat was beyond reassuring. That said, if the repeated rejections hadn't been enough of a clue before, there was no questioning now that Brock only barely tolerated him as an employer. So much for the many failed attempts at bridging the gap between them--he'd made it plain he no longer wanted to be a part of this family, so why bother? So Rusty fell back on the crutch that always got him through these awkward situations, of which his life was a tapestry, and decided to get a few jabs in the first chance he got.

So when Brock was discovered putting a very excited (but incredibly tired) Hank to bed in the early a.m., the doctor sternly asked the man to follow him to the lab. Which Brock did. 

"I didn't miss you, you know." Hm, not quite cruel enough. Rusty folded his arms. "The boys were devastated, however. Well--I should say Hank was devastated. _Dean_ and I have been getting along just fine without you." 

"Ah... right," Brock said distractedly, picking at a fleck of grit on his massively blood-stained shirt. 

Rusty bristled. The man wasn't even going to apologize! Well, he'd see about that. "Nice work sending H.E.L.P.e.R. back to us wrapped in that awful lambskin coat of yours. Hank hasn't taken it off all year. It's becoming a health hazard. I've seriously considered sedating the idiot just so I can get the thing dry-cleaned."


	2. Chapter 2

"I'll have a talk with him," Brock said, his eyes fixed somewhere just above Rusty's head. He sounded very distracted. 

Normally Rusty would give up at this point, volley a parting shot and make his retreat before the other man had time to think up a retort. But there was something welling up inside him, something that made him want to try the impossible and throttle a throat that could give an industrial clamp a run for its money; something that made him delirious and sick, and as he stared at Brock who was still doing his darnedest to avoid eye contact, he blamed himself for caring, called himself dozens of curse words he was fairly certain people would be surprised he knew, and blurted, "I know you hate me, you've always hated me, fine. But the boys did not in any way deserve what you did."

"Doc--"

"You just left and, and all hell broke loose. The boys were kidnapped, I was repeatedly humiliated and almost killed, my _therapist_ was killed, the entire Guild showed up on my lawn _again,_ and the O.S.I. managed to saddle us with someone who should by all rights be inst--" 

He was cut off when Brock pressed him up against the wall. The rest happened so fast he barely had time to react. The feeling of a hot mouth covering his, of rough hands making quick work of the zipper on his speed suit, of being lifted, of his legs wrapping instinctively around the other man's waist. The moans coming from his own throat, his own pleas mingling with Brock's grunts. And finally, the quick, sharp sting of being entered without any preparation or warning, Brock's fingernails digging crescents into his legs through the polyester now bunched around his thighs. And he was begging for the other man to fill him, to fuck him, to go deeper, harder, oh, God, he'd missed this so much--

And then Brock slowed, removed his tongue from Rusty's throat, finally able to meet the other man's gaze. "Tell me you want this," he growled, and Rusty gulped convulsively, eyes darting between the Swede's hard expression and the nearest possible exit. 

"Doc," a hand gripped his chin and they were staring each other down, and it was freaking ridiculous, and totally against the rules. It was daylight, someone could walk in on them at any moment, they weren't even in some remote location, the door wasn't even locked--

There was a horrible feeling that This Was It. Here and now, with the other man buried deep inside him, with his spine aching from being pressed into the cold titanium alloy of the wall behind them that had already begun to sap the heat out of his skin, and they weren't employer and employee, they weren't _anything._ Brock was, in his own meat headed way, attempting to be tender: taking Rusty by force out of the blue and asking for his permission as an afterthought was basically the closest thing to an admission of affection the doctor was ever going to get. 

Lust and bitterness and gratitude and betrayal clashed in Rusty's mind, and he wondered briefly (ridiculously) what his father would have said about super-scientists who allow others to see them cry. 

"Doc," impatient, now. Perhaps a little desperate. Leave this any longer and Brock would withdraw, put on his clothes, and pretend nothing had ever happened. 

Rusty wracked his brains for the correct thing to say, but for once, he had no quips, no witty observations to impart. Studies showed that pair-bonding in a number of species had a direct detrimental effect on the capacity for problem-solving and reasoning in a number of species. He found himself trying to remember whether humans were included on that list. 

"DOC!?"

"Well, what?" Rusty snapped. "What do you want me to say? That I want you to stop fucking my brains out? Oh, yeah. That's why I was saying 'yes' over and over."

This was answered with a series of thrusts. "Such--a--jerk." 

"Why thank you, I do try.”


	3. Chapter 3

The passage of hours found them on the couch together, eyes red-rimmed and libidos spent. It had to be about noon. Hank was likely still asleep; they hadn't bothered looking for the others. Left to their own devices, it was a safe bet that Hatred was pursuing one of many unclean internet hobbies and Dean was reading something. 

Rusty figured they should probably talk about what happened. He looked at his arm, pressed up against Brock's arm. And his leg, pressed up against Brock's leg. He shivered a bit.

"You cold?" 

Rusty shook his head mutely, but Brock materialized a blanket from out of nowhere and threw it over both of them. Seeing that the doctor wasn't going to react, the former bodyguard coughed nervously into his fist, flipped between channels. "So we've got, uh, Mythbusters and How It's Made, oh, and Paranormal State." 

Rusty shrugged to show he didn't care. "Brock?"

"Yeah." Eyes focused on the screen, trying too hard to sound normal, maybe.

 _What did we just do?_ "Shouldn't you be out saving the world?" 

"It's my day off."

The doctor digested this piece of information. Well. Of course it was. That made sense. Except, "Brock?" 

"Yeah, Doc." Resigned now. Not wanting to have this conversation. Muscles tense, jaw set. 

"Hold me?" 

Ice blue eyes flickered in his direction, back to the lovely Ms. Lynne chattering with some foreman inside a factory. "Ya know I'm not into...." 

Doctor Venture crossed his arms. "Well, maybe I won't let you have your way with me anymore, how about that?"

"Oh, you won't, will ya?" Tossing the remote aside, Brock had the doctor on his back in a matter of seconds. "Won't let me do this--" the secret agent breathed roughly, cupping Rusty's buttocks --one cheek in each hand-- "or this, either, I'll bet?" he continued, nipping lightly at the super-scientist's ear. 

_Look at us, making out on the couch like a couple of teenagers._ "That's right," Rusty replied sarcastically, even as his heart began to beat like a hummingbird's. Was it just Brock, or was it the amphetamines? It was hard to tell. "All access denied from this point forward." 

"Won't be so bad, seein' how ya didn't miss me."

Rusty closed his eyes and licked his lips, angling his neck in subliminal suggestion for the Swede's wandering mouth. "Not--" he gasped, gratified. "Not one bit." 

"Good. Me neither."


	4. Chapter 4

Dean was on his way downstairs to the kitchen in hopes of finding something still edible for lunch (or a late breakfast) when he heard some odd noises coming from the living room. He tensed, shoulders bunching up around his ears. It sounded like his dad was in trouble! His first instinct was to run away, hide in his closet (he didn't like going to the panic room, that was the first place guys who hated his dad always looked) and huddle in a shivering ball until Hank or Sgt. Hatred came to tell him it was safe.

The noises got louder and became more insistent. Dean gulped. No, his pop sounded like he was in some real trouble. It would be wrong to abandon him. He should at least find out what was happening and then go and tell the others. Even if he had no chance of holding the attackers off on his own, he owed his father that much. 

Quietly, Dean crept down the stairs until he was at the point where he could crouch and look down on what was happening below, hopefully without the henchmen or ninjas or poltergeists or--

\--oh. 

_\--oh._

Brock was on the couch, stretched out like a therapist's patient. The man's head was resting on his former employer's lap, which might not have been weird on its own (maybe Brock was seriously injured or implanted with a computer chip, and they were trying to fix it) but pop's hand was running through Brock's hair as if--as if Brock were little, or a lady. The sight made Dean feel kinda funny. They weren't like Uncle Gentleman, so perhaps they were under some kind of chemical influence? He would have to gather more data in order to be sure. 

"So, Mr. Mid-Life-Crisis. Are you coming back home?"

"I... I dunno." 

"Look, you can go and play Deadbeat Bodyguard all you like, but the least you could do is drop in for supper now and again." The doctor snapped. "Or was this--" he gestured the room, the couch, the two of them sharing a blanket, "--Colonel Posing Pouch's way of gathering blackmail material on yours truly so his gay little club of pyramid fanciers can get out of paying all that back-rent they owe me? You on company time right now, hm?"

"I quit the OSI, Doc." Brock said quietly. "I dunno what I wanna do, but there's no changing that." 

"Well." Rusty's hand paused partway down Brock's side. He let out a defeated breath. "Well, consider this a standing invitation."

"Doc--"

"Not that you should need one," the doctor added bitterly. "Seeing as you belong here, because this is your home." 

"So that crack earlier about me bein' here because I forgot to give back my key...." 

Rusty's hand resumed its stroking. "Well, what did you expect? There I was, being made a fool of in front of all those Chippendale wannabes--"

"Hate ta say it, Doc, but you make a fool or yourself on your own often enough--"

"Precisely. It's not as if I need help." 

"Mm." Brock vocalized dozily. 

"Oh my God. Are you going to sleep? You are, aren't you!? Well, thank you for taking me seriously." 

"What can I say," Brock yawned. "I missed the soothing sound of yer nagging." 

"Ingrate," Rusty muttered, but there was affection in his voice as he said it. He pulled the covers more tightly around Brock's shoulders, tucking the other man in before leaning back against the cushions and dozing off himself. 

Dean watched them for a little while before deciding he didn't need a sandwich anyway. His dad had been under a lot of stress since Brock left and now that Brock was (possibly?) back the situation was obviously delicate. Besides, even if it was maybe a little odd, they looked so... so peaceful like that. And they were his parents, after all.


End file.
